24 July 2010
I wish my faith would move mountains. Here's a poem I wrote a few months ago inspired by the biblical story of the gentile woman who persistantly asked Jesus to heal her daughter and on a count of her faith, He healed her:
I am the Gentile, the sole depiction of the one on fire for him.
Righteousness was soiled from the day I was spoke into existence.
No justification for eternal life, no not one.
Groveling in mud I stretch out a tattered hand
To whom I am not worthy of a glimpse
No, Not one.
Seemingly upon deaf ears I cry out to.
Frantically continue to yell out to him
Heighted the volume of my request until it reached its maximum,
And yet silence greeted my ears.
Bystanders scoff at me. His followers question my animation.
Yet no reply from the one I thirsted for.
On all fours I am leveled to the canine
And not in the mission of he who saves all.
His food is for his children.
I bellow to my Lord, pleading for underserved grace.
An undeserved blessing.
For a mongrel like I.
For when I witness the seed drop from the fruit, I plunge.
And the one who saves granted me grace,
And it was done.